Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Next Year's Spring

THE bed of flowers Loosens amain, The beauteous snowdrops Droop o'er the plain. The crocus opens Its glowing bud, Like emeralds others, Others, like blood. With saucy gesture Primroses flare, And roguish violets, Hidden with care; And whatsoever There stirs and strives, The Spring's contented, If works and thrives. 'Mongst all the blossoms That fairest are, My sweetheart's sweetness Is sweetest far; Upon me ever Her glances light, My song they waken, My words make bright, An ever open And blooming mind, In sport, unsullied, In earnest, kind. Though roses and lilies By Summer are brought, Against my sweetheart Prevails he nought.